TRAGIC CITY Excerpt of A Derrick Olin Novel Stellen Qxz Copyright © 2023 by Stellen Qxz 3rd Man Publications All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or institutions or events, is entirely coincidental. (And you just try to prove otherwise!) CHAPTER 1 BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA Josephine Taylor’s first mistake was being born. Her third mistake was not putting a gun into her mouth and blowing out her own brains. That being said, however, the second mistake she made was the real doozy. And the one that ultimately cost her everything, including her miserable fucking life! Following the takedown of Malik Oldham a few years ago, law enforcement throughout Birmingham and Jefferson County made it their mission to ensure that no one would ever again rise to the top of the crime world in the Magic City. In fact, they did all they could to make sure there was no crime world in the Magic City, pouring in resources and personnel to work around-the-clock to accomplish this goal. And with the assistance of local prosecutors and some legislators in Montgomery, tougher and lengthier prison sentences were put in place for any of the perpetrators unlucky enough to be caught and convicted. Of course, they weren’t naive, they knew that crime and vice would likely never be completely stamped out, but they could try very hard to limit and contain it at minimal and disorganized levels, never allowing anyone to consolidate criminal power as Innes Redbone had done twenty years ago, and to a lesser extent, Malik Oldham had done after knocking off Innes. But there were those who tried, and some of them were a lot worse than either Redbone or Oldham had ever been, if you could believe that. About a year ago, Jo-Jo Taylor decided that it was high time Birmingham had a Godmother of Crime, and a white one at that, so she started taking over as much territory and operations from other gangs as she could, smaller outfits at first, but soon she was going after the bigger fish, and kicking them to the curb, too, oftentimes via extremely violent means. And despite their best efforts, local LEOs1 just couldn’t seem to stop her. 1 But then about seven months ago, Madam Taylor ran afoul of Triple-D2 because the girlfriend of one of her lieutenants went to a domestic abuse shelter to get away from him, only to have the lieutenant in question and some of his boys bust into the shelter and drag her out, destroying property and injuring the security guard on duty in the process. The shelter was run by a friend of Reese Tamblyn's, and when Reese heard about this, she called Ollie. Ollie was standing in my office at the time of that call, and shortly thereafter, Mr. Oliver and I were out hunting. Within a couple of days, thanks in part to a bit of assistance from a bail-bonding agent who had paper on Taylor, we managed to locate and detain the wannabe Nasty Godmother of the Magic City, and then turn her over to the Shelby County cops. At that point, Birmingham cops went to work on her fledgling criminal empire. Triple-D was out of it and I was hopeful that the cops would be able to deal with Taylor and her associates through conventional legal means. Unfortunately, the judicial system is not all it's cracked up to be sometimes. Or, to quote Ollie, “It fucking sucks, man!”. About sums it up. Taylor cut a deal with the feds, gave up some major drug players in Atlanta that she had information on, and in exchange, they had all local charges in Birmingham quashed, meaning she was back on the streets with the thanks of a grateful Department of Justice and told to keep her nose clean. Yeah, sure, that worked all right. Not even two weeks before she was back at it, and once again rising to the top of the thug game, assembling a crew and going after the territory she had lost, and staking out claims to new areas that she had intended to take before her brief incarceration. In the meantime, Reese Tamblyn had put together a group of investors with the goal of assisting Birmingham with its efforts to revitalize the most desperate and crime-ridden neighborhoods in the city. She was still general manager at Dex’s Place in Five Points West and a vice president at EAD Enterprises, but thanks to several smart investments over the past few years, Reese had amassed a decent sum of money of her own and decided she wanted to do more to help those out there who needed it. She had a good life, a husband, a son, a nice house, a great job and friends, but there were so many people out there who had none of that. And Reese wanted to do 2 2 something substantial to help, hence the formation of the Birmingham Neighborhoods Project, of which Ms. Tamblyn was the Executive Director. Gate City was the first area chosen for BNP to invest in, and given the reputation of the place, it was a tall order, but Reese and her friends were not deterred, there were a lot of good people in Gate City who needed help and they couldn’t wait for the municipal government to get around to doing the job, so in the meantime, the private sector would have to step in and shoulder some of the responsibility. Lamentably, Jo-Jo Taylor had set her sights on Gate City as well, and she was packing a lot more than a heart full of love and a pocket full of cash. Also, as Ollie and I could personally attest to, she was one mean bitch. Marvin Daniels, Sandra Lopez, and Reese Tamblyn were all gunned down while talking to a gathering of residents in the parking lot of an apartment complex on 66th Street North that BNP had just purchased with the aim of kicking out the drug dealers (once they hired Triple-D) and then completely remodeling the place, with no increase in rent to the tenants. They were discussing additional plans for the neighborhood when three beat up old Chevys rolled onto the scene, several bangers climbing out with machine pistols. Lopez died on the way to the hospital. Daniels did not survive surgery. Reese and six others never left that parking lot alive. As it happened, Ollie was in my office again when the call came in from a friend of mine with BPD Robbery-Homicide. My reaction was shocked disbelief. Ollie damn near destroyed half the office before I and the rest of the team managed to calm him down, after physically restraining him. But that calm would not last long, I knew that. And honestly, I didn’t really want it to. I don’t like a whole lot of people on this planet. I had liked Reese Tamblyn. I did not like the fact that she was dead. People were going to pay for that. Oh, and in case you were confused, yes, Josephine Taylor’s second and worst mistake was killing Reese Tamblyn, because as of that moment, she was the only mission Triple-D had, and none of us would stop until that mission was accomplished. By whatever violent and bloody means necessary. 3 CHAPTER 2 Reese’s family wanted a private service up in Clanton where she was born, about fifty miles north of Birmingham, with just the immediate family in attendance to say goodbye to their beloved girl. Everyone in Birmingham understood that and respected the family's wishes, however, Reese's many friends in the Magic City needed to grieve and say goodbye, too. Therefore, two weeks after she was laid to rest in Clanton, Dex's Place was shut down all day Saturday and friends and acquaintances, customers, and people who barely knew Reese all came to celebrate the just shy of forty-four year life of a very good person, someone cut down in the prime of that life, and who would be greatly missed by many. Unlike the pieces of shit who killed her, or the gigantic pile of excrement who ordered her murder. All the members of Triple-D made it to the formal memorial service that began at six that evening, but it was a close-run thing because just that morning we wrapped up with Ms. Taylor and the last remnants of her criminal organization. Permanently. And naturally, there were questions to be answered for the police, and no doubt in the not too distant future, lawyers from the DA’s Office. But they could all wait. The only thing that mattered right now was Reese. Saying goodbye to her. Ollie was a mess, the only things keeping him in check for the moment were his daughter Rosa and her mother Meeka, the only person he had ever truly loved, before Rosa was born, and they were barely enough. Despite their ages only being separated by thirteen years, and the occasional lustful thoughts regarding Reese’s bodacious form, in many ways Ollie looked on her as a daughter, too. I don’t think I realized this until after she died, and maybe Ollie didn’t either, which might explain the reason he was reacting the way he was now. He was no stranger to violence and death, none of us were, and I wasn’t sure, but it was possible that Ollie had never lost anyone close to him before, likely in fact, because with few exceptions, there was no one really close to him. Another thing he and I had in common. Perhaps if it were not for his relationship with Meeka, which produced Rosa, Ollie would not have developed the emotions that had been triggered by Reese’s murder, and would now be the cold bastard I was used to, the man I had thought I’d known for the past forty years. Accounting for his actions now, I sincerely hoped he died before either Meeka or Rosa, and that neither died by violence, because if they did, I dare say that the 82nd Airborne Rangers would have to be called in to put an end to his rampage at that point; with Delta Force on standby for backup. I asked Sheila and Frankie to keep an eye on him and give Meeka any help she required should things deteriorate. Frankly, I wasn’t doing too well either, kind of wishing that I could go back in time and resuscitate Jo-Jo Taylor’s corpse, and this time kill her myself instead of watching as Bert popped her twice in the forehead from twelve feet away just as she finished reloading her Ruger. Satisfying, but not nearly as satisfying as it would have been had the two .45 caliber Hydra Shoks come from my Glock instead of his. Ah well… Monique Otis, the current principal at Jackson-West High School, had grown fond of Dex’s Place after I introduced her to it about two years ago, and because Five Points West wasn’t all that far away from the school, occasionally she and her vice principal and other teachers would go there for lunch when time permitted. And she even managed to get her husband Eldon to take her there for dinner sometimes, which he also seemed to enjoy. I had introduced her to Reese and the two women got along well, and I understood from Niqe that because of her association with me, Reese always made sure she had the best table and the best service when she dined without me. So I wasn’t very surprised to see her at the memorial service, along with Eldon, who was in town more these days now that he had become a supervisor at the trucking company for which he worked. A part of me wished she was not here, though, and definitely not here with her husband. The service was informal and most people had on casual clothes. I was wearing dark slacks, a long sleeve blue button-down shirt, and a black blazer. Many were in blue jeans. Monique Otis and her husband were two of them, but I didn’t give a shit about Eldon Otis in blue jeans, he couldn’t compare to his wife. Niqe had a phat ass made for denim, Eldon had a fat ass made for a circus tent. Okay, that was a little mean. No less accurate, though. Just then he reached behind his wife as she was talking to someone else and gave her butt a squeeze, which Niqe ignored as she continued her conversation. Pig! 5 I asked the tender at the back bar for cranberry juice. He knew me and knew I didn’t drink alcohol (much) so there was no expression of surprise in his eyes upon hearing my order. I thanked him while accepting the highball glass, taking a deep sip, sighing, staring down at the highly polished bar surface for several long minutes as the buzz of activity continued around me. As previously stated, I was not feeling particularly well. The past few weeks had been difficult, not to mention bloody, and I wasn’t sure I had the stomach for that kind of thing anymore. But maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe I was just sad about Reese. That was probably it. Fuck! Suddenly my nostrils filled with a familiar scent and I nearly stopped breathing. I stood perfectly still, my glass in the middle of the bar, my hands on either side of it. A voice to my right ordered two mixed drinks and the bartender nodded, reaching for glasses under the bar and beginning to make the drinks. I took a deep breath, but didn’t turn. “Hubby seems to admire your booty about as much as every other man with a pulse,” I said in a low tone. There was a snicker to my right, an arm bumped against mine. “He’s gonna pay for that later on,” she whispered back. “Believe me. That’s as close as he’s gonna get to it all weekend. He really didn’t want to come here today, there was a ballgame on that he wanted to watch, but I told him how important it was to me and he eventually gave in. But he’s in a playful mood, probably thinks I owe him something now that he’s had to sacrifice his plans. He’s certainly wrong, and will come to realize that in due course.” I still didn’t turn, picked up my glass and had another sip. The bartender finished with one of the drinks she’d asked for and was now working on the second. She took the glass and lifted it to her lips. “You look tired,” she said after another few seconds. “Exhausted, really. I can imagine this has been a trying time for you and a lot of people who knew Reese. Derrick, I cannot tell you how sorry I am about what happened. She really was a good person, I liked her very much, and to have her die in such a senseless manner… God-awful. I hope whoever was responsible will be caught and face justice as quickly as possible.” 6 The bartender finished the second drink and put it on the bar. I finished my juice, took another deep breath, turned to stare at Monique Otis, knowing the expression on my face was not a pleasant one. “Already done, luv,” I said quietly. She turned all the way in my direction, staring fixedly into my eyes, hers full of concern, and likely just a tiny bit of fear. She took another swallow of her drink, then reached for the one that was for her husband. “I need to go back to Eldon before he misses me,” she said, her eyes still unblinking. “But I want to talk to you later. He’ll be wrapped up in another game or something once we get home. I should be able to stay in the bedroom undisturbed for a while. I’ll call you and we can talk.” She paused and I said nothing, didn’t blink either. She glanced around, saw her husband talking to a couple of people she didn’t know, and neither did I. She turned back to me, a small smile at the corners of her mouth. “And maybe we can plan a get-together really soon. If you want?” I was so cold on the inside right now. Cold as fire. But the thought of seeing Monique Otis naked in the near future did things to my lower anatomy that could not be denied. Of course she could call me, and if she asked nicely, I’d be more than happy to sneak into her bedroom this evening while hubby was watching his games and do a whole lot more than just grab that perfect round backside of hers… She turned with the drinks in each hand and headed back to Eldon. I stood and stared at her ass the whole time, not caring if anyone saw me, least of all her husband. A few minutes later, my mind still lost in Niqe’s magnificent derriere, a commotion brought me around and I turned to find Ollie shouting at a waiter near the front bar, Meeka moving in from one side, Sheila from the other. “Fuck!” I swore softly, setting my empty glass on the back bar, then started shoving my way through the crowd to get to Ollie before he killed somebody. 7 CHAPTER 3 After learning of Reese’s murder, and sufficiently calming Ollie down to the point where he wouldn’t strap on all his irons and go out shooting every gangbanger in town—and maybe some who only looked like bangers—Triple-D’s business became very slow, at least as it pertained to business that actually paid us. On the pro-bono front, we were busier than ever, especially Jordana Kauffman, at least in the opening days because, after all, now she was Triple-D’s chief investigator, and she had a lot of investigating to do. My sources within BPD’s Criminal Intelligence Section and Robbery-Homicide Division said they had solid information that Taylor was behind the hit in Gate City, but so far at that point they were having a hard time locating and laying hands on her. They also added that doing so was police work and that I should respect that and let them do their jobs. A lot of cops throughout the metro and the state know me, which is why the friendly warning, and it also explained why very shortly I received a call from Anita Epstein, Birmingham’s current Top Cop. She offered sincere condolences, told me that her officers and detectives were doing everything they could to bring justice to the victims and their families, and, of course, warned me off the case. “Derrick, I know Ms. Tamblyn was a friend of yours. I know what she meant to a lot of people in this city, especially those on the west side of town. From everything I’ve read, she was a very good person and it angers me too that these pieces of crap killed her and the others like they were nothing. Apprehending those pieces of crap is a top priority for my department and every other law enforcement agency in the metro. Let us handle this, Derrick. We’ll get them. I promise you that. And, of course, it is our job, not yours.” I told the Chief I heard and understood her, wished her people luck in their efforts, then hung up the phone just as Jordana Kauffman came into my office with Sheila on her heels. “Got something, Chief,” said the ex-cop who just couldn’t quite help herself when it came to using my first name on a regular basis, opting instead for an honorific from her previous profession. “As I’ve told you repeatedly, Detective, if you’re going to keep that up, I prefer Commissioner. Makes me sound more sophisticated and worldly.” Both Sheila and Jordana smiled as they stopped in front of my desk, the latter leaning forward and putting several sheets of paper down in the middle. “What’s this?” I inquired, briefly pausing to consider reaching for my reading glasses in the top drawer before allowing vanity to make me her bitch and choosing instead to pick up the papers and squint at them. Jordana leaned back up to her full five feet, eleven inches, adjusting her glasses, and I wasn’t sure, but it seemed to me that she might be giving me an expression of disapproval, too. I really did wish she'd just give me the middle finger salute like the rest of the team. “The end result of a lot of ass-busting on the part of your dedicated staff,” Jordana said with a haughty smirk. “Particularly Sheila here, and Frankie, too.” I glanced up at her. “And I suppose you’ve just been goofing off all this time. What am I looking at?” She explained, and occasionally Sheila would add a word or two while I hunched over my desk and scanned the pages Jordana had put there. “So, using the data your friend in BPD Intel unofficially provided us, and collating it with what Sheila and Frankie got from their contacts, I was able to put together a fairly accurate predictive model of Taylor’s past behavior which I believe will tell us how she will react now, including where she’s likely to go to ground, and the people she feels she can get support from.” I nodded, glancing up. “Okay, but won’t the cops do that, too?” “Of course, and BPD has some very good detectives and analysts on their staff, however, none of them is as connected to the street element as some of the members of Triple-D’s staff.” Sheila grinned. “She mean ex-thugs, ‘specially me and Frankie.” Jordana turned to look down at the much shorter woman. 9 “I think you and Frankie are just great,” she said sincerely, paused, then grinned. “But if I had run into either of you while I was still a cop and you were still on the other side, I’d have happily busted both your butts.” Sheila glanced back up at the other woman for a long moment, both suddenly humorless. For just an uncomfortable second there I thought something unpleasant might be about to happen, but then Sheila grinned and punched Jordana in the right arm. Jordana wrapped that arm around Sheila and gave her a squeeze, then they both turned back to me. “Bet Derrick there thought we was about to throw down or somethin’ right here in his office,” Sheila said. “And he wasn’t sure who to root for,” Jordana added. "Or to sell tickets." I sighed, leaned back in my chair. “I do appreciate the brief sojourn into comic relief, ladies, really. Believe me, I know how difficult all of this has been for everyone. But please tell me about this predictive model and how we’re going to use it to find Josephine Taylor.” I left out the and kill the bitch dead part because as far as everyone at Triple-D was concerned, that was a foregone conclusion. Jordana nodded, glanced briefly at Sheila, adjusted her glasses once more, then told me. It took me about two minutes to make a decision when she was finished, but I told Jordana and Sheila to excuse me for a little while before I told them what it was. I sat for another three minutes, going back and forth on another decision, then said fuck it and reached for my mobile phone. I had promised to keep him in the loop and assured him that when there was something that looked promising, he’d get a call. I am far from a boy scout and have told my share of lies in my time, but I owed Ollie better than that right now. Hopefully, I wouldn’t regret this call in the very near future. Sighing, I unlocked my phone and pulled up the speed-dial menu. 10 CHAPTER 4 Some long dead war strategist—probably Clausewitz or Sun Tzu—once said that the best way to draw your enemy out was to burn his house to the ground, or something to that effect. So this is precisely what Triple-D did, set fire (literally in some cases) to everything Jo-Jo Taylor held dear, a lot of things that the cops did not know about, particularly her money and gun stashes. According to the information that Sheila and Frankie’s wrong-side-of-the-tracks contacts provided, Jordana Kauffman’s assessment was that the banger leader had a tidy sum of ready cash stashed away that totaled just under three hundred grand. She also had a lot of firepower, some of it fully automatic. And we knew exactly where all of it was hidden. We broke up into three teams, Jordana insistent that she was not going to sit this one out behind a desk. I reminded her of her background in law enforcement and the possibility that she might one day return to that career, but she was adamant that she was going to help, adding that while she had not known Reese as well as the rest of us, she had liked her, too, and was just as pissed about her murder, and the others. I said okay, then decided that since Sheila and she got on so well, they could be one team. Frankie and Bert were another. The only way I was letting Ollie out into the field on this was if he was with me every step of the way. I had promised Meeka that I would keep him from going too far off the deep end and getting himself in trouble that no one would be able to get him out of. A tall order, but hey, I am Derrick The Magnificent Olin. At least in my mind some days. Within forty hours, excepting what she had in her pockets wherever she was, Jo-Jo Taylor now qualified for welfare and Supplemental Nutritional Assistance because she was flat-busted-broke, and seven of her top enforcers and two lieutenants were either under medical care or behind bars. Next we went after her weapons and drug stashes, again, the ones the cops didn’t know about. This netted us more bad guys, all of them swearing they didn’t know where their boss was and pleading to be taken to jail so they wouldn’t feel her murderous wrath once she found out they had failed to protect her shit. BPD and Jefferson County were only too happy to lay hands on these individuals, most of them having serious felony warrants outstanding, however, they were not happy with the fact that I had apparently not heeded their warnings about steering clear of this case. I explained that my people and I just happened to be in the area when we noticed suspicious activity and took action as all good citizens are encouraged to do. “See something, do something!” Chief Epstein and Assistant Sheriff Toms were not pleased with this response in the least, and the latter pointed out that it’s “See something, say something!” “Oh,” I said innocently. “My mistake.” And we continued undeterred, as they knew full well we would, but lodging official protests with witnesses to back them up provided them with some level of deniability should we do something really bad and innocent people were hurt. Otherwise, it was wink and nod time. TAYLOR SURFACED THE FRIDAY BEFORE REESE’S memorial at Dex’s Place. In of all places, Gate Goddamn City. She killed two former bangers there because they wouldn’t agree to shelter her, then stole what little money they had and fled in one of their beat up old jalopies. BPD responded and when Taylor was identified as the perpetrator, an updated BOLO3 was issued, additional city and county units deployed. I received a call from my source in BPD Criminal Intelligence about an hour after the incident in Gate City, lying on the sofa in my living room cuddling the naked and still quivering body of Laurel Simmons as she lay on top of me. I thanked my source, dropped the phone on the floor, slipped both my hands down to the delightfully firm ass of the fifty-five year old blonde hottie in my arms, squeezed. “You ever play sink the submarine with Dr. Dave?” I said absently. Laurel grinned, her blue eyes shimmering as she rested her chin on her folded arms across my chest. “Not even to periscope depth,” she teased, still grinning, her large white teeth on full display. “Which is why I have you around, skipper.” 3 12 I grinned, squeezed her butt again, then pressed my lips to hers. This was a bit of a celebration, Laurel had just received some unexpected news, but it was supposed to be kept under wraps until the official announcement was made next week. However, she was bursting to tell someone, and who better than the man she already shared a significant secret with? Yours truly. So she called, asked if she could come over, and then did. She told me her news, I congratulated her, then stripped off her pants and underwear and ate her until she came several times. Then I made us a snack while she called to make sure that her two teenage sons had made it to their respective after school sporting practices, checking in with her cosmetic surgeon husband to find out if anything had changed with his work schedule. It hadn’t, he would not be home until some time around eight. Her sons wouldn’t be home until around seven. Perfect. She hung up the phone and turned to where I stood at the counter finishing up. “Everything’s good,” she told me, that perfect mouth full of sparkling white teeth again on marvelous display. “I can stay and play a little while longer.” Good, I thought, my cock stiffening as I glanced over and admired her nakedness, returning her grin. After receiving the call about Jo-Jo, and a little time playing with Laurel’s magnificent MILFy body, I retrieved my phone from the floor and typed out a text message, sending it to Jordana. She replied a few minutes later and then I dropped the phone back where it had been. It was only five-fifty now. Still a little time. Laurel recognized the expression in my eyes, felt the increased intensity of my hands on her ass. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?” she said with a lazy smile, her pelvis pressing into mine, her pussy soaking me. “Well if you’re thinking that I’m thinking about using my tongue to play submariner with your booty, then I am. And a whole lot more…” She pressed her lips to mine, slipped her arms around my neck, nearly smothering the breath from my lungs. “No more talk then, Ahab,” she said breathlessly, pulling back and staring directly into my eyes. “First I’m gonna help you hoist your flag. Then we’ll see just how deep you can plant it.” 13 I smiled, sighed happily, then pushed up from the sofa and took Laurel with me. 14 CHAPTER 5 Early Saturday morning around three o’clock Jo-Jo Taylor and her last three loyal foot soldiers went to ground in a dilapidated house in the center of the Fountain Heights neighborhood that had definitely seen better days. The house and the neighborhood. I had actually been in the house once a long time ago, back when it was owned by the late Innes Redbone, though I had not been an invited guest4. No, Innes and I never had that kind of relationship, but I like to believe that we became much closer on that one occasion, approximately the barrel length of a .45 caliber 1911 pistol from my palm to his several chins. The good old days. I didn’t know who owned the house now, if anybody. If somebody did own it then they were sure doing a piss poor job with the upkeep. Innes must be rolling over in his grave, which should be easy for him now given all the years of not eating since he bit the dust. Ah well… The tip from my friend at BPD placed Jo-Jo in this area, and the text I sent was to let Jordana know this so she could concentrate her investigative efforts there. To that end, she called on the redoubtable Sheila and Frankie and it wasn’t long before networks of informers and people who were really scared of them spotted Taylor and her cohorts breaking into the former home of one of Birmingham’s truly unpleasant citizens. By the time this information was reported to me, Laurel Simmons had been long gone from my place, no doubt sleeping in the loving arms of her husband by now. She’d probably sleep well, it being the weekend, and the fact that I had done everything in my considerable carnal power to exhaust her while she was with me this afternoon. But thoughts like that were not helpful at the moment, there was work to do. Hard work. Yeah, not as hard as my cock became when thinking about Mrs. Simmons bent over my kitchen counter, but still… 4 FOR FORM’S SAKE, ONCE CONFIRMATION HAD been achieved, Jordana asked if I wanted to call the police and tell them where to find Taylor and the gang, what little there was left of it. I actually considered what she said for about ten seconds, then told her no, but reiterated that she didn't have to come along. Strictly speaking, the investigative part of the job was now over. She told me she understood that, and was coming along if the rest of us were. And we were. Frankie and Sheila had been watching the place since before dawn and confirmed four people in the house, one of them fitting the description of Josephine Taylor. They also reported seeing lots of guns. Ollie nodded grimly, pushing shells into the breach of a Benelli self-loading shotgun. “Good,” he said coldly. “The more the fuckin’ merrier.” Yep, he and I were partners again and I was seriously thinking about asking him to leave the shotgun in the van, knowing that his response would not be pleasant, so I simply shook my head and sighed. “Look like they got two on watch,” Sheila was briefing us. “One in the front room just to the left of that big window up there, the second one in the back, second floor, peeping out a little window that Frankie say is a bathroom.” Frankie nodded. “Been a long time since I was in there,” he said. “Innes didn’t socialize with the troops much, even his top guys. I was there maybe four times over the years, and not for long. One time, Nestor was taking so long in the downstairs guest bathroom that Mya told me I could use the one upstairs in back. The window in there gave a pretty good view of the backyard and the neighbor’s house to the right. But like I said, that was a long time ago, and both those houses been empty for a while.” I nodded, let Sheila continue. It was now seven after seven on an overcast morning, no sun visible yet. Other than the dead of night, probably the best time to make our move. The watchers would be sleepy, Taylor and the others probably still asleep. No need for a whole lot of sophistication, after all, these people were vicious, but they were not trained. My team was (trained and vicious). That being said, we would still proceed with caution. I pulled Ollie to the side and had a quick whispered conversation. I could tell that he was barely holding it together and impressed upon him the fact that if he went into that house in a blind rage, he could be endangering the lives of everyone else on 16 the team, adding that if he did that, I would kick his ass myself. Threatening George Oliver is never a smart thing to do, and believe me, I know this very well, however, it’s not such a good idea to get on my bad side either. Just ask Malik Oldham. Well, you can’t because he’s dead, which kind of makes my point. After a full two minutes of hard staring, the rest of the team sitting uncomfortably in the background waiting for the explosion, Ollie sighed and nodded, whispering that he understood. I actually believed him, too. Ten minutes later we were inside the house. The downstairs watcher had fallen asleep with a Beretta pistol on his lap. He was so startled by Sheila and Jordana’s bursting through the front door that by the time he knew what was happening, Sheila had secured his weapon and Jordana had him down on the floor, her knee in the middle of his back, and flex-cuffs tightening around his wrists. Upstairs, watcher number two was awake, had a shotgun of his own. Bert and Frankie both shot the man before he could make it all the way out of the bathroom, his finger never making it to his weapon’s trigger. Jo-Jo’s third man was actually a woman, and she burst out of a first floor bedroom, naked as the day she was born, a Tech-9 machine pistol in her left hand. She was spraying up the hallway as Ollie and I made our way into the kitchen, trying to be as careful as we could so as not to trip over all the garbage and other shit in our way. God what slobs they were! I made it to the hallway first, the shooter’s back to me. Her ass, too, and you would not be wrong if you suspected that I took a second to admire her rearview. You would be wrong if you thought this would distract me or keep me from doing my job. However, Ollie beat me to it, stepping past just as the woman turned, his Benelli already raised to his right shoulder. Being an auto-loader, there was no racking required after every pull of the trigger. I must admit I was a little surprised when Ollie only pulled the trigger twice. It was enough though. Everyone reported in, and by my count, there was only one left. The woman in question herself. The wannabe (now never will be) Godmother of Crime. Ollie and I quickly searched the first level while Sheila covered the front door and Jordana watched their prisoner. There was no sign of another living being down there and Ollie glanced at me, moving toward the stairs. Bert and Frankie were holding in the upstairs 17 hallway, as per instructions. I let them know we were on the way up, moving quickly to catch up with Ollie. He was two steps from the upper landing and I was three steps behind him when a barrage of gunfire sounded, accompanied by a guttural scream of rage. Having once had the pleasure of making Ms. Taylor’s acquaintance, I knew that scream. I also knew she couldn’t shoot worth a damn, which is why she opted for weapons with large capacity magazines. The shooting and the screaming stopped, but there were shouts, the same angry female voice. I heard Bert yell “Drop the fucking piece, lady!” and the response “Go fuck yourself, spic nigger!” The distinctive sound of a semiautomatic pistol’s slide slamming into place and the chamber being loaded. I arrived just in time to see Bert put two .45 caliber Hydra Shok rounds into the middle of Josephine Taylor’s pasty, bumpy forehead, thus effectively avenging the death of our friend Reese Tamblyn. Of course, this was not nearly good enough for Ollie and the next guttural scream of rage came from him. It took everything Bert, Frankie, and I had to pull him away from Taylor’s corpse and get him downstairs where Sheila stepped in and took his face in her hands, pulling his forehead against hers, holding him until the struggling stopped. Then, to my everlasting astonishment, my friend, likely the coldest motherfucker I have ever known, actually started crying. Shit. Next came the cops. Shit, again. Both Chief Epstein and Deputy Chief Marlin, head of BPD’s Investigative Operations (Detectives) Bureau, were in Fountain Heights by nine-thirty a.m., and neither looked happy. I must say that I was surprised we were actually finished with our interviews in time to make it to Reese’s memorial at six, and given what I had witnessed regarding Ollie’s reaction that morning, his further breakdown in the evening was not so much of a surprise. Still, Triple-D was in for some rough days ahead, and I was not looking forward to them. We got Ollie to his vehicle, Meeka behind the wheel, Rosa and Sheila on either side of him in the backseat, Frankie riding shotgun. They were taking him home, he needed rest, and time. He’d get as much of that as he required, I would see to that. 18 Bert and Jordana came up to me as I walked back into the restaurant, concern on their faces. I glanced to the right and caught Earl’s eye. I knew he wasn’t doing well either. Reese was a very close friend and protégé of his. I needed to speak to him in a bit, too. Bert and Jordana stood on either side of me, slipping their arms around my back and walking me off to find some place we could talk. I would have preferred being alone but knew now was not the time for my less charming dissocial tendencies to surface. So I put my arms around them and did the human thing. Briefly, I caught sight of Monique Otis and her husband and they appeared to be heading out. I didn’t stare too long, but did make a mental reminder to expect a call later in the night, and make plans for the future. At the back bar again, Bert and Jordana ordered mixed drinks, I had another cranberry juice. We turned and faced one another, held up our glasses, and I made a brief toast. “To Reese Makayla Tamblyn Cunningham, friend, wife, mother, gone too soon, and there will never be another like her.” “To Reese!” We drank, but it didn’t make any of us feel even a little bit better. 19 CHAPTER 6 On a Tuesday morning a few weeks later I was still at my condo downtown when I got a call from Benita Bender, ace legal eagle at the Milner Law Firm. She said that she had a client who would be in need of high quality protection services in the near future, and since all the high quality outfits she knew of were currently busy, wondered if Triple-D might be interested in the contract. I laughed, leaning back on my papasan chair and thinking about the very tall, very thin, and very white (as in highly sun-deprived) thirty-five year old former Jefferson County prosecutor who was young enough to be my daughter, but thankfully wasn’t my daughter, and had a most incredible little backside in her own right. I was also thinking about spanking said backside for that remark. And just because it would likely be a great thing to do. “You know, there’s a substantial surcharge for smartasses,” I quipped, hearing Nita snicker down the line. “Well it’s not like that’ll come out of my pocket,” she retorted. “Which is a good thing, too, because little boys are rather expensive to take care of.” I chuckled. “And how is the other Mr. Jacobson in your life?” “Short, cranky, still poops in his pants, but he is the absolute light of my life,” said a very proud mama. “Aaron and I couldn’t be happier. Even talking about having another one in another year or so.” “Good for you,” I said. “I’m happy for you, although that still isn’t going to stop me from billing you mercilessly for your insults regarding my company just a little while ago.” She snickered again. “Now, Derrick, you know I was just playing around. Everybody at Milner knows there is only one name in professional security in this town. Hell, Ashley would kick me to the curb, from the sixth floor, if I even suggested going anywhere else for security services. Even to Master-Plan.” “Uh-huh,” I said stiffly. “Now you wanna play nice. So tell me about your client and how soon you were looking at starting. We’re a little short-staffed at Triple-D right now, and about to be even more so, but I’ll see what we can do.” A pause for maybe thirty seconds, then Nita responded. “Actually, Derrick, this is a little sensitive and I was hoping to speak with you in person. Could you come by the office tomorrow afternoon? I could have lunch catered in.” Now it was my turn to pause, mentally reviewing my schedule for tomorrow. “If we could make it one-thirty, that would work for me,” I told her. “Got something on for in the morning that might run a little long, and is up in Gardendale.” “Sure,” she said. “That works for me. I’ve got a deposition in the morning but that should be over by eleven. I can cool my heels for a couple hours while waiting for you to grace me with your awesome presence.” “And the rates just went up again, smartass,” I told her, then laughed. She laughed, too, then told me she’d see me tomorrow afternoon. I set my phone down on my thigh and spent a few moments considering the very long-legged brunette I’d just been bantering with, in particular, a picture from her honeymoon in Mexico a few years back that featured her on a lounger under a large beach umbrella wearing a black one-piece, dark shades, and a big floppy hat. Then it was time for me to get up and go to work, something I was not doing as eagerly these days as once I had. On the plus side, I had an afternoon meeting today that would likely raise my spirits, not to mention my blood pressure and galvanic skin response levels. And now I was smiling, among other physical reactions. 21 CHAPTER 7 Jordana Kauffman was leaving us, and while I was not surprised, I was very disappointed. Actually, I was surprised that she had lasted two years with us. Not for any negative reasons, on the contrary, her work was first-rate and she got on well with everyone at Triple-D, making herself indispensable in a very short period of time. And as a result, another great loss to us. Jordana had been a cop up in Morgan County for more than a dozen years and lost her job because of politics. She was a friend of my former BPD friend, Paige Palmer, and Paige knew I was looking to hire someone to run the office, once we had an office, that is. She suggested Jordana, told me the story about Morgan County, said she knew what I had to offer wasn’t exactly what Jordana was looking for, but a job was a job, which the late thirties redhead needed at that time. So with that ringing endorsement, I agreed to meet former Detective Kauffman. Good thing I did, too, because I immediately agreed with Paige that she was capable of doing the job, but the question was whether she wanted to do it. Jordana answered me honestly, telling me that she really didn’t, but that she could and would if I hired her. Her heart was in law enforcement, however, for the moment that door was closed to her in the state of Alabama, thanks, again, to dirty politics. Well I love hard luck stories just as much as the next potential employer, and decided to take a chance, hiring her the next day. And true to her word, she did the job, better than advertised, which is why pretty soon she was assigned much more to do than office work, eventually becoming our chief investigator as well. But now that was over. Jordana’s husband is a Marine officer and was recently promoted to lieutenant colonel. Two months ago he informed Jordana that he was being transferred back stateside on a permanent tour, at least for the next three years, taking an assignment at Camp Pendleton in Southern California. This meant that for the first time in quite a few years, they would be able to live together in the same place and be a real married couple. That is, if Jordana agreed to move. Of course she agreed, and thanks to two friends of mine, one an FBI Executive Assistant Director who used to run the Bureau’s LA Division, the other ex-FBI, too, and previous head of the LA Division as well, now the Director of Investigations for the California Department of Justice, the Chief of the San Diego Police Department received two most excellent recommendations regarding former Detective Kauffman, encouraging her to hire Jordana before someone else beat San Diego to the punch. Jordana flew out for interviews four weeks ago. Last week she received a call from the head of personnel at SDPD. She was in, and the Chief extended her personal congratulations to the newest detective with San Diego’s Burglary Division. So, like I said at the outset, Jordana was leaving us. This was her last week. Actually, Thursday was her last day. Just two more days. I WAS SITTING IN MY OFFICE READING A threat assessment that Sheila had written for a new client, and while my mind wasn’t completely into it, I must admit to being somewhat impressed. In a reasonably short period of time, Sheila had come a long way in the writing department. In the beginning, while being far from illiterate, she had not been the most articulate member of the team, and had a tough time expressing herself with the written word. Truthfully, with the exception of Bert, none of the others had had much experience with writing official reports and communicating in any manner other than physically, and usually violently. But Sheila was by far the toughest case, the biggest trial. However, now it appeared that the case had been cracked and she was becoming quite the report writer, making good use of that thesaurus program I introduced her to. Also, I suspected that she’d been getting help from Jordana as the two women had become closer. Yet another reason I was unhappy to see Ms. Kauffman go. I put the Android tablet down, removed my reading glasses as I glanced up at the tall redhead in front of my desk. 23 “If I could convince the Marines to open a major base in the heart of Birmingham and then get Anita Epstein to make you Chief of Detectives, would that convince you to stay?” Jordana smiled down at me, briefly glanced behind her, pulled the single client chair up to the front of my desk, and then sat her lanky frame down, crossing her long legs left over right. She had a black folder in her hands, now resting it on her lap. “Well if I became Chief of Detectives, that would hardly leave me time to be your chief investigator,” she quipped. “Or to be much of a wife to Jared, something I’ve missed quite a lot over the past few years as he’s been on constant overseas deployment. And as much as Birmingham has grown on me over the past few years, Derrick, Southern California is really nice, as I know you know.” “I do,” I sighed, sitting up and leaning my arms on the desk. “Especially San Diego. I know you and Jared will love the place, and you'll get to be together more, too. I know how much you’ve been missing him and am happy for the two of you. And you’re gonna get to do the job I know you really love, what could be grander? Again, congratulations. I know you’ll go far out there, and probably make Chief of Detectives one day, too.” We were both silent for a time, tears threatening to spill from her large green eyes, and, admittedly, I felt some stinging in mine as well. After a minute, Jordana reached up with her left hand and rubbed her eyes. I glanced away and stifled a sniffle. “Damn,” she swore a short time later. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to do that.” I took a deep breath, sighed, then refocused on my soon-to-be ex-operations manager/chief investigator. My mobile phone beeped before I could come up with something to say that didn’t sound completely stupid. I held up a finger then pulled my phone out of the holder on my belt. My expression remained stoic as I read the text message, but on the inside, I was quite warm. I returned the phone to the holder and glanced up again. “So as I was about to say, Mrs. Kauffman, although your work here has been somewhat satisfactory, I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go because you simply have exceeded our extremely low standards here at Triple-D, thus making the rest of us look bad.” 24 Jordana snickered, wiping her eyes again. She was about to say something, paused as she thought, then grinned wider, uncrossing her legs as she leaned forward, her left hand rising from her lap, her long middle finger springing upward in as fine a middle finger salute as I have ever viewed being directed toward me. At last!, I thought triumphantly, leaning back and grinning widely. “About damn time,” I chided playfully, tipping my imaginary hat in her direction. “You will definitely be missed, Jordana. By everyone. The place won’t be the same without you.” I paused, cleared my throat, then indicated the file in her lap. “So what was it you wanted to see me about, and does it have something to do with that?” Jordana took a deep breath, nodded as she picked up the folder. “It does,” she said, placing the folder on the front edge of my desk. “In here are the three most qualified candidates, in my estimation, to replace me. It’s something that we should have discussed before now, but you’ve been dragging your feet, and I know why. But we need to at least talk about it before I go, and maybe we might even be able to get them to come to the office for interviews tomorrow while I’m still here.” I stared at her and knew she was right, about so many things, but a part of me was still resistant, and I wasn’t sure why. Or maybe I was. Didn’t really matter though, as I said, Jordana was right. I nodded, reached for the folder and opened the cover, beginning to leaf through the contents and pretending that what I was doing now was the most interesting and fun thing in the world, knowing that in just a few short hours I would actually be engaging in the most fun and interesting thing in the world, at least to me. Again, I had to suppress the smile that threatened to misappropriate my face and reveal to Jordana that my mind at this moment was far away from this office and considering many things that had nothing to do with hiring her replacement. Not that anyone ever could… 25 CHAPTER 8 Monique “Niqe” Otis will be fifty years old later this year. And maybe then her insatiable sex drive will finally abate, but somehow I doubt this development will come to pass anytime soon. Honestly, though, I’m pretty sure I don’t want that to happen anyway. Actually, I know I don’t. Circumstances had prevented Niqe and me from getting together for the past several weeks, much to our mutual disappointment, but this Tuesday mid-afternoon we managed to rectify that unfortunate result. Niqe left work early for a doctor’s appointment and came directly to my condo. When she told me the excuse she used for her early departure from J-W, I grinned and pulled her close, telling her that it wasn’t a complete lie she had told her vice principal and staff. While I was not a licensed physician, I felt more than capable and qualified to give her body a thorough examination and… good going over. This made Niqe grin wickedly and press her lips to mine. Smiling and feeling a surge of pent up and burning lust throughout my body, I took her hands in mine and led her into the bedroom… NIQE WAS ON HER RIGHT SIDE, LEFT LEG raised across my shoulder and back, her body quivering uncontrollably as she panted and moaned, occasionally shrieking at the top of her lungs. Despite this, I did not halt what I was doing. In fact, this caused my actions to intensify, my tongue and the fingers on my left hand sinking deeper into her dripping wetness, between her folds, into the center of her female essence. Yes, her pussy! The other white meat? Well actually in her case it would be light brown meat because she’s black, but I suppose it really doesn’t… Yeah, I’m getting off track, and right now I really should be concentrating on what I’m doing because unless I’m mistaken, Mrs. Otis is about to reach the point of no return and… Yep, right on cue. Now she was screaming her head off, her body shaking wildly, and her pussy… Well I’m sure you get the picture. While she lay trying to recover her breath, her body bathed in perspiration, I rose to my knees and smiled down at my handiwork. One of my truly favorite things in the world is pleasing a woman sexually, getting her off, as it were. And I especially love it when she loves it, as Monique Otis surely did. This explained the gigantic erection I had right now, not to mention the lustful glint in my eyes. I sighed deeply, then leaned down and rolled her all the way over onto her stomach, scooting down and taking hold of her ankles, pulling her legs apart. Niqe managed to raise her head and glance back over her left shoulder, brown eyes wide. “Oh shit,” she managed to breathe. “Yeah,” I said impishly, aligning my body with hers, leaning down and kissing the middle of her slick back, the impression of the black lace bra that she no longer wore still visible on her skin. A quick glance down at that magnificent brown booty, then I started lowering my body onto hers until the head of my cock was pressing into the entrance of her pussy. God she was so wet, something to which my sheets could no doubt attest. “Ready?” I teased her, moving ever so slightly. Niqe quivered and moaned, then nodded her head. I sighed again, then grinned, pressing forward and not stopping until every millimeter of me was filling every millimeter of her… “HOW’VE YOU BEEN SINCE LAST I SAW you?” Niqe asked as we stood at my kitchen counter an hour later drinking juice and eating from a fruit and veggie platter that I had prepared. “I know you’re the strong silent type, Derrick, a modern-day John Wayne or Clint Eastwood or something, but I could also tell how upset you were about what happened to Reese, which is normal for anyone. Tough guys included.” I glanced at her over my glass before setting it down and picking up a plum, taking a bite. It was cold and very sweet. Wet, too, but I’d keep that to myself. “Always been more partial to Mr. Eastwood,” I told her as I finished the plum and discarded the pit in the trashcan under the counter. “But to answer your question, 27 I’m fine, as well as can be expected. I knew Reese for about fifteen years, and I liked her. She was a good person, worked hard at being a good person. I’m not going to betray any confidences, but I’ll just say she had a rough early life, went down a bad path and made some pretty bad choices, but eventually she was able to right herself and become better than she was. And she didn’t let her past haunt her, she was honest about it, made no excuses, accepted what she had been and let it fuel her present and future. I’m sorry for her family, her husband, and especially her son because he’s not going to get to finish growing up with Reese as his mother. That’s just too much because Reese really doted on the boy, loved him unconditionally. He’s devastated, so is his father. And I understand that her mother up in Clanton is still under a doctor's care.” I paused then, feeling a wave of disgust rising in my gut. Niqe reached out her right hand and rested it on my left forearm, saying nothing, just lending support. I took a deep breath, reached for my juice glass with my right hand. “I’ll be fine, Niqe,” I told her after finishing the glass. “It’s Ollie I’m worried about. I was hoping that once we dealt with the people who killed Reese and the others, he’d snap back, be something close to what he was before, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. According to Meeka, he seems to have deteriorated even more. Mopes around the house all day, doesn’t shave, barely talks, sits and watches game shows or soap operas or whatever is on television. On the plus side, he isn’t flying into rages anymore and she’s not so worried that he’ll grab his guns and go out and start shooting random bad guys. She took the keys to his gun safe, by the way, and after a day or so of raging around, he stopped demanding she give them back. For a while she thought about asking Sheila to come and take all of them away someplace more secure, but now she doesn’t think it’s necessary. Of course, she knows like I do that access to guns has never been a problem for Ollie, and if he really wanted to get his hands on some hard hardware, it would be no sweat.” “Have you talked to him?” she asked, stepping closer. I stared down at her breasts for a few moments, suddenly remembering that we were both naked, wondering how the hell that was possible. The not remembering part. “Not since the memorial service,” I said. “I’ve called a few times but Meeka says he doesn’t want to talk to me. She doesn’t like me, really, but I don’t think she’d 28 lie about this. Sheila goes over and visits and he won’t talk to her either, but Sheila is Sheila and she goes anyway. She’s worried, too, and Frankie. Hell, we all are. The business is going to take a hit soon if he doesn’t come back, especially with Jordana leaving in two days, but I’m not really worried about that right now, which should actually worry me.” I paused again, reached for her hand on my arm, held it in both my palms, staring deeply into her eyes. “When your husband groped your ass at the memorial Saturday before last, I felt a surge of jealousy,” I said to her. “Wanted to go right over and punch his lights out.” Niqe snickered. “I’m glad you didn’t. It would have put me in an awkward position, having to decide between cheering for you or showing concern for Eldon. He pissed me off doing that, too. It wasn’t the right time or place and he was just showing out. Like I told you then, he would pay for that, and he has.” She snickered again. “Besides, he has no clue when it comes to how to handle my ass. Unlike you.” We stared deeply into one another’s eyes for several long moments, the heat rising between us. I was rock hard again and burning with lust. “I think it’s time to complete the rest of your physical examination, Principal Otis,” I said in a lust heavy voice.” “Really, Doctor,” she said in a coquettish tone, stepping back from me, striking a pose, right hand going to shapely right hip. “I thought we were finished, you appeared to be quite thorough before. I can’t imagine what on earth could be left for you to do.” My cock was throbbing now and I took a step toward her. “Well, for one thing, I need to verify your temperature readings from earlier, make sure the numbers are correct. And in order to ensure complete accuracy, I’m going to have to use my specially prepared rectal thermometer.” Niqe snickered and did a quick Wonder Woman-like5 spin around, facing me once more, this time with both hands on her thick hips. 5 29 “You could have just said that you wanted to slide your big meat pole into my big booty,” she teased. “We’re all friends here, no need for subterfuge. I know that you’re a butt bandit, and, apparently, so am I.” Another long stare, lust continuing to build. I stepped even closer, took her face into my hands, pressing my lips to hers. She was breathless a few minutes later when I put my mouth to her left ear and whispered something. She squealed and stepped back, pushing against my solid chest. “God you’re fucking disgusting,” she said, then grinned widely. “And I fucking love it!” Taking me by the hand, Niqe led me back to the master bedroom, and for this entire brief journey, my eyes never left that big bouncy booty of hers... 30 CHAPTER 9 Benita Bender has been with the Milner Law Firm for about three years now, following six years with the Jefferson County District Attorney’s Office where she had been a rising star until office politics came into play and some of her actions were judged to be inappropriate by the current leadership. So, rather than take an unwarranted (in her opinion, and mine) demotion, Benita opted to take Ashley Milner up on her offer of a junior partnership. Today she was a full partner and the assistant head criminal litigator for the firm, and a rising star of Ashley’s. Truth be told, I believe that Ashley is planning on grooming Benita to be her successor when she goes. Ashley is nearly eighty, and while she’s still going strong for the most part, she isn’t going to be around forever, but the firm that bears her name probably will. In my estimation, and likely Ashley’s as well, Ms. Bender is an ideal choice to take over the Big Chair someday, maybe when she hits forty or thereabouts. Now all that remains is to convince her of that. Not my job, though, so no worries for me on that front. Wednesday afternoon Benita and I ate lunch in the small conference room attached to her new corner office on the sixth floor of the Harbert Plaza building downtown on 6th Avenue North and 20th Street, the headquarters of the Milner Law Firm. She had an iPad set up, and while we ate, it displayed the latest photos of her son, some by himself, some with him and his parents, everyone smiling, laughing, and happy. I nodded in the right places, mumbled something pleasant here and there, and did all the things that I imagined normal people did during times like this. I also kept to myself my thoughts regarding some of the outfits Benita was wearing in some of those shots, given that she was posing with her infant son. The blue bathing suit, the snug black yoga pants, and the khaki thigh-high shorts were just a few of my favorites. At the conclusion of lunch, and after quick bathroom breaks for both of us, we went back to her office and sat in the two comfortable leather client chairs in front of her large black desk. She had on a skirt today (thank the universe and all the false gods and all the king’s horses and all the tea in China), and as is usually the case with her lanky, six-feet plus frame, the garment rides several inches above her delectable knees when she crosses her legs and leans back in the chair after handing me a blue file folder. Being the properly bred southern gentleman that I am, of course, I take no notice of her creamy white thighs. At least not any notice that she notices. I hope. “That file contains everything I know about the client I want to hire you to look after,” she said without further delay. “And I’ll warn you up front, he's not a pleasant fellow, not that it likely matters to the professional side of you, as in my case. On a personal level, I’d personally like to put both my designer pumps up his ass. With my feet still in them.” “Well with that cheery endorsement,” I said with a grin, undoing the clasp and opening the folder. “I can’t wait to find out who this is.” I was wrong, I could have waited, likely forever. “Fuck!” I swore a few seconds later, glancing up from the file and into the cool dark eyes of the litigator across from me. “Yeah,” she said with a deep sigh. “There are rare times these days that I miss being a prosecutor. This is one of those times.” I glanced down at the file contents once more, shook my head. “And this is one of those times that I regret they did away with the post of public executioner,” I said dryly, sighing heavily, leaning back in my chair, and beginning to read in-depth. 32 CHAPTER 10 Kennedy Claypool is a thirty-seven year old crook who managed to help con a lot of stupid rich people out of their money for several years before they became suspicious and the feds came on the scene to shut Claypool and his associates down. And, being the sniveling little puke that he is, not long after the cuffs went on his wrists, Claypool was spilling his guts to federal prosecutors with the hope of cutting the best deal possible to keep himself out of prison. And most unfortunately for the City of Birmingham, the bastard was a native son and had run his part of the operation from an office park in Hoover. Some of the people he fingered were also residents of the metro, at least part time in some cases, and the feds decided to go for a major RICO6 indictment spearheaded by the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Birmingham, with Ken Claypool as their star witness. Only one problem, first they had to get him a lawyer, and not just any lawyer, someone good, someone smart, and someone who knew the ins and outs of the criminal justice system. The current U.S. Attorney for the Northern District of Alabama (based in Birmingham) is a former protégé of Ashley Milner’s, herself the former U.S. Attorney for the State of Colorado, and he turned to Ashley for assistance. Ashley had smiled and said she had the perfect person for the job. “And I thought Ashley liked you,” I said after finishing the highlights of the Claypool file and listening to Benita’s briefing. She snorted. “I said the same thing to her and she grinned and said that as a parent she was always a believer in tough love. I responded by telling her that I better be prominently featured in her will then, after this grand screwing.” If my supposition was correct, Ashley had far greater plans for this young woman’s future than a simple bequest in her will, but again, I kept that to myself; along with thoughts of precisely the kind of grand screwing… never mind. 6 “So you’re representing Claypool’s interests, and I can fully understand why this fuckhead needs protection, but what I don’t understand is why the feds aren’t providing it. I mean, he is a federal witness and that’s something the U.S. Marshals are known to be rather good at.” Benita shifted on her chair, nodding. “My first thought as well,” she admitted. “And that’s when I received a briefing on new DOJ guidelines regarding witness protection.” The frown on her face made me frown and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what she had to say next, but I listened anyway. I was right, I didn’t want to hear it. Shaking my head, I turned and tossed the folder onto her desk. “I have never for one day regretted my decision to leave Uncle Sam’s stable after ten years. But it is somewhat of a comfort to know that bureaucratic and political stupidity can still surprise me. They can’t provide marshals’ protection but they can pay for private contractors, as long as it’s done through a third party. Give me a fucking break.” Benita shook her head, uncrossing and recrossing her long legs. And, again, being a gentleman, she did not catch me observing. I hope. “Stupid, I know, Derrick, but there you have it. And by the way, I asked if there was a cap on service fees for the contractors and was told that was something that had not been discussed when the new rules were put into effect. So in essence I guess that means you can bill whatever the hell you like. Yeah, this policy really ought to save the taxpayers some serious dough, don’t you think?” Her sardonic expression matched the way I felt and we both shook our heads. “When does this need to start, Nita?” I said, pulling out my mobile phone and accessing the calendar. “Trial starts next Wednesday and is expected to last a month. Claypool is presently in Atlanta and in the custody of federal marshals. He needs to be in Birmingham before Monday. You’ll have to go and get him from the marshals’ facility over there and bring him here to Birmingham. They’ve arranged a hotel where he can be kept.” “They can forget about that,” I said, glancing up from my phone. “If Triple-D is going to accept responsibility for this creep’s safety, then we’re going to handle all 34 arrangements for his protection once we take charge of custody. Meaning, they don’t pick safehouses, we do.” Benita stared at me for nearly a minute before her near flawless face cracked into a huge grin. “Hard bastard!” she said. “Exactly why I want you on my side. Run it however you have to, Derrick. It’s your show, you’re the expert. If the marshals wanted to be able to dictate terms, they should have picked up the protection detail themselves. They bitch, I’ll tell them to go pound sand.” I smiled, my mind slightly behind as it still mulled over that comment she made about wanting me on her side. Yeah, the nineteen year age difference notwithstanding, I wouldn’t mind being on her side, too, not to mention up her… Yeah, let’s not go there. “We’ve got some things wrapping up over the next couple of days, including Jordana’s farewell dinner at Dex’s Place tomorrow evening, but I think we can be ready to take on Mr. Claypool by Sunday. I’ll need the particulars and contact information for whoever is in charge in Atlanta.” Benita nodded. “I’ll email you everything by no later than noon tomorrow. There’s some prep work that has to be done with the prosecutors next week before the trial begins. My understanding is that Ken is going to be the third witness they call, which means he might testify as early as next Wednesday, certainly no later than Thursday. And because of his star witness status, he’ll be subject to recall. Likely the defense will want to call him back during their case-in-chief, too, even if they do a thorough cross during the prosecution’s presentation. And it’s highly likely that the prosecution will call him on rebuttal in order to explain or dispel things that were brought up during the defense’s case. This is why I’m estimating a month. Maybe less, could be more, though.” I nodded, tapping away at my phone. After a minute I looked up. “Okay, I’ll work out the logistics, figure out how much this is going to cost the taxpayers, and when I get your email, I’ll likely have additional questions. By the way, are you aware of any specific threats directed toward Claypool? I mean, given that he swindled a lot of people out of millions of dollars, I know plenty of people want to kill him. Especially when you add in the folks he’s betrayed by agreeing to testify.” 35 “Nothing specific,” she said, uncrossing her legs, putting her feet flat on the floor and pressing her knees together as she leaned forward. “But I’ll make sure to get whatever the marshals have and include it in the email tomorrow. Is there anything else you need right now, Derrick?” “So many things, luv,” I said with a deep sigh. She stared at me for a long time after that comment, saying nothing. Finally she leaned forward even more and put her right hand on my left knee, squeezing. She still said nothing, and neither did I. Another twenty seconds went by and she finally stood, smoothing out her skirt (which I now noticed was rather snug in the seat area) before moving behind her desk. I watched her until she reached her chair, then refocused my attention on my phone, careful not to let her see me taking deep, uneasy breaths. Christ! 36 CHAPTER 11 I shun hotels as safehouses. Too many things out of my control for my liking, and even if management agrees to take the rooms off the hotel master key system, they can still get in if they want to. After all, they’re the ones that control the locking system in the first place, among lots of other things. Therefore, I prefer using safehouses that are under my absolute dominion. Yeah, I’m kind of a control freak, but thus far, I had never lost a client under my protection, and despite my personal feelings toward our current client, I did not intend to let him be the first. Sheila, Bert, and I made the trip to the federal detention facility in Atlanta to collect our charge. Thanks to my close personal relationship with the current Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal for the Northern District of Georgia, Jeff Porter, the transfer went much smoother than it might have otherwise. We brought him back to Birmingham via one of the most convoluted routes my sneaky mind could come up with, then installed him in our Homewood safehouse where Frankie was already waiting, and he had the night shift that day. The next couple of days we spent transporting him to his lawyer’s office where he met with Benita Bender and two people from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, then back to the safehouse. While he was at the safehouse, one of the troops kept him company while I and whoever else wasn’t on duty handled other business. We were still a bit slow and that wasn’t a bad thing because we were down two people. Jordana was on her way to San Diego—and so far I had not replaced her—, and Ollie was on indefinite leave, possibly terminal leave, meaning the team might be down to a permanent four. I could hire someone to run the office, not that finding someone as good as Jordana would be easy, although it would be easier than finding someone good enough to take Ollie’s place on the team. And although the people Jordana and I had interviewed on her last full day the previous week seemed competent and capable, I really wasn’t sold on either of them, likely meaning I would not be calling any of them back for a second interview. Honestly, my mind and heart weren’t in it. Maybe that was even true about Triple-D, too. Claypool was not called to the stand until Friday, and spent the entire day testifying. The judge finally called a recess just after five p.m., saying that the prosecution could resume direct examination of their witness on Monday, court was adjourned for the weekend. Back at the safehouse, I set the weekend schedule for twelve hour shifts both days, Sheila and me on Saturday, Bert and Frankie on Sunday, then on Monday and for the rest of the week it would be back to the previous routine until the next weekend or the job was done. On Sunday afternoon I received a call from Nadya Shaba, founder of the Magic City Dreams Foundation, and as was always the case when we spoke on the phone or in person, the flirting was outrageous, mostly coming from her direction. Hard to believe in all the time that I’ve known this woman and all the time she’s spent making me blush (kind of), that she and I have never danced the Naked Tango. Perhaps it was time to do something about that. After all, I wasn’t getting any younger. Nadya, on the other hand, despite turning seventy last year, seemed to be doing nothing but aging backwards. “I hope you aren’t busy with anything Tuesday night, Derrick,” she said in a mirthful tone, her accent and husky voice really doing a number on my groin as I sprawled on my living room sofa. “Because I want you to be my escort for the evening. And not my bodyguard, rather my arm candy.” “Am I going to have to wear leather chaps?” I teased. She purred down the line. “Now that would be a sight,” she rejoined playfully. “I always did think you would look great in crotchless pants, too.” We both laughed, and after a while Nadya told me what was going to happen Tuesday, although, thanks to another intimate relationship, I already knew. I told her that I should be free Tuesday night, but there was a possibility that something might come up. Nonetheless, I would do my level best to be in position to be the most charming escort she’d ever had. 38 This brought forth a snicker and she said, “Well I’ve never paid for it in my life, Mister, but I suppose if I were going to start, my RocMan7 would be the perfect choice.” We laughed again, then chitchatted for a while longer before hanging up. By this time the shorts I was wearing revealed quite a noticeable bulge in the crotch region. Who knows, maybe this coming Tuesday night would be far more interesting than Nadya thought. And maybe end with a bang! I checked in with the shift at the safehouse in Homewood, then went to make some food. I had planned on an old movie double feature this evening, and once I finished in the kitchen, I’d plop back down on the sofa and watch Casablanca from 1942 and 13 Rue Madeleine from 1946. The exciting life and times of an off duty professional bodyguard. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to contain the excitement. 7 39 CHAPTER 12 Tuesday morning the defense got their first crack at Kennedy Claypool, and it was another very long day, ending just after four-thirty. Sheila and I got him back to the safehouse by six and Bert took charge. I told Sheila I’d see her in the morning, then made haste to get back to my condo downtown. A quick shower followed, a fresh shave for my face and head as well, then I dressed in the one and only tuxedo that I have ever owned, casually observing my appearance in the hallway mirror as I made my way toward the front door. No telltale bulge of the subcompact Glock .45 concealed under my jacket. Chances were good that I wouldn’t need the weapon tonight, the only danger I’d be in is of my face cracking from all the fake smiling I was about to do. However, there are still quite a number of folks out there who are not fans of mine (shocking, I know!), and prudence and common sense demand that precautions be taken. Also, the reason I now own a tux is because I got tired of having to buy them from the rental companies after they were ruined when somebody did try to kill me while I was wearing one.8 Thus far, since I bought this monkey suit, it has remained unscathed. Fingers crossed. The Magic City Dreams Foundation is located on the thirty-first floor of the Harbert Plaza Building, the same building that houses the Milner Law Firm down on six. On the top floor, the thirty-second, is the Harbert Club, one of the most exclusive dining establishments in the city, with membership being required for dining, or you have to be invited by a senior member in good standing, like Nadya Shaba. She’s actually on the Harbert Board, so needless to say, getting a reservation is never a problem for her, and neither is renting the place out for an evening for an exclusive event. Nadya was already in the building when I arrived, in her spacious office talking with a couple of associates. She was wearing a stunning dark green sequined evening gown that would leave a lesser man a quivering mass of Jello, but not Derrick Olin, no 8 sir, no ma’am! Although I must admit that my throat was a little dry when she walked over to me and the slit up the left leg of the long gown opened to reveal a still quite remarkable pair of sexy gams. And then there was the plunging neckline. Yeah, this was going to be an interesting evening. She stopped in front of me, grinning and taking both my hands in hers. I stared down into the deep black pools that were her eyes, smiled as well, leaning down and kissing her cheek. “I’m sure you already know this,” I whispered next to her ear, “but I’ll say it anyway. You look absolutely amazing, luv.” Nadya beamed, squeezing my hands. “Well now that you’ve said it, I know it’s true,” she said, planting a light kiss on my lips. Then she introduced me to the others in her office. By eight-ten we were in the club having drinks, in my case nonalcoholic, and as I hovered near Nadya, I glanced around and saw a lot of people I knew, although many of them not personally because they and I usually moved in different circles, unless they required my specialized services, which a number of them had over the years, and on Nadya’s recommendation. Approximately twenty feet away I caught sight of someone I had been looking for ever since stepping off the elevator, and truthfully, it wasn’t her that I spotted first, it was her husband, Dr. David “Dr. Dave” Simmons, UAB’s premiere cosmetic reconstructive surgeon. And there she was in front of him wearing a stunning red dress with a plunging neckline of its own. When Dave turned to his right, I was able to see her in profile, and I smiled, thinking about just how familiar I was with Laurel Simmons’ profile, not to mention her cleavage, and other bits and pieces, too. Food was served buffet style, despite the formal attire, and after about an hour, once everyone was fed and liquored and happy, Nadya moved to the center of the room and got everyone’s attention. When the noise level dropped to almost nothing, she began to speak for the next ten minutes, giving a brief account of how and why she came to found Magic City Dreams, what it meant to her personally, and how grateful she was to everyone in this room for all the support they had given her over the years. Then she talked about recent events, and the difficulties that were facing every charity around the world today, especially those that sought to help the forgotten and less fortunate. She pledged to continue the fight for those people with her last breath, with 41 her last ounce of strength, and with her last dollar, declaring that the hopes and dreams of everyone for a better life for themselves and their kids was worth everything she had and would never give up as long as she was alive. Then she made the announcement that shocked a lot of people, but not all, not me, not Laurel Simmons, either. A year earlier Nadya had hired an executive director to run the day-to-day operations of the foundation so she could concentrate more on fundraising and media. That executive director had recently taken a job in New York and Nadya had stepped back in to take on most of the responsibility she had before, although realizing at the outset that this had to be temporary. And to that end, she had spent the last two months searching for the right person to become the foundation's new President and Chief Executive Officer. Tonight she was announcing that the board had unanimously chosen Laurel Simmons for that post. Judging by his reaction, I don’t think Dr. Dave was aware of this ahead of time. He was all smiles as he took his wife in his large arms and squeezed her to him. Laurel was beaming as she accepted the well wishes of everyone as they applauded her. For just a brief moment, our eyes met in the distance, my mind recalling her sharing this news with me a few weeks back, right before she rode me on the sofa in my living room, her soft C-cups in the palms of my hands. Oh wait, actually I believe I tongue-fucked her first, then… Not really important right now. I nodded and she turned without acknowledgement, walking over to Nadya and the two women embraced warmly. Laurel spoke for ten minutes and I actually listened to every word, her deep Georgia accent more prominent than ever among the sea of Alabama ones. I glanced over and saw that Dr. Dave appeared to be genuinely moved and happy for his wife, and this made me smile. Of course, thinking about some of the things his wife and I have done naked over the past couple of years makes me smile, too, but I’m not thinking about any of those things now. The event broke up a little after ten-thirty and I escorted Nadya down in the elevator. A towncar and driver were waiting out front of the building and I opened the door for her and she slipped inside, smoothing the bottom part of her dress underneath her backside and letting the slit open again. I admired her legs once more, leaned in and kissed her cheek. Nadya grinned playfully, slipped her arms around my neck and pressed her lips against mine. I did not resist, and after a few seconds more, thought screw it, and 42 slipped my arms around her, returning the kiss in full. We stopped short of her offering me a ride, but right before I shut the back door, I could see an open invitation any time I liked. Emphasis on open. I closed the door and tapped on the roof of the car. A second later, and not a moment too soon, the driver pulled off. Most everyone else, me included, was parked in the Regions deck across the street. By the time I got there, the level I was parked on was nearly empty. I got into my Equinox and drove home. Since I live six blocks away, it was not a long drive. I stepped into my condo just after eleven, into the long hallway that leads from the entrance all the way to the living room, exactly twenty-two feet. A space I sometimes jokingly referred to as my fatal funnel because if someone breached via the front entrance there was nowhere for them to go but forward, no place to hide or seek cover. And believe me, anybody dumb enough to breach my place would definitely need cover. And then a body bag. Followed by a coroner. I popped on the entry light as I resecured the door, deadbolt and latch included. My alarm was beeping, and as I stepped over to the panel a few feet away, the countdown clock informed me that I had fourteen seconds left to enter my disarm code before an alarm would be sent to the monitoring control room at Master-Plan Security. I entered it with nine seconds to go. I yawned, turning for the living room and about to flip the switch for the lights in there and remove my jacket. Suddenly I froze, sensing another presence that did not belong. Fuck! I swore in my head, instantly drawing the Glock and kicking off my shoes. A quick breath, then I dropped low and sprinted forward at top speed, the .45 leading the way. The lights were off in the living room, just as I had left them, but the night light under the microwave in the kitchen was still on. Also, just as I had left it. It cast some illumination into the front room, enough for me to make out shapes, see the furniture because my night vision is still pretty good. It did not take long for me to spot the human form sprawled back on my papasan chair, long legs crossed. Even in the darkness I recognized that profile, too. Shaking my head in exasperation as my heart rate began to normalize, I stood all the way up, lowering the Glock to my right side, stepping fully into the living room and telling my Google Assistant to turn on the fucking lights! 43 “That’s no way to talk to a lady, Derrick," said Shelbee Roberts as she sat up on my chair and turned to face me, grinning. The programmed voice of my Assistant is that of a posh British female. I shook my head again, glanced down at the pistol in my hand, then back at the master covert operations spook who had once again violated my personal space and security. And was still alive. At least for the moment. “Yeah,” she said, her face and voice still jovial and friendly. “If you shot me now it would be justified. After all, I am an intruder in your home and this is the South, Stand Your Ground and all. But if you did that, you’d never find out my reason for being here in the first place.” I sighed again, thinking that maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, but then I put my weapon away and took a few more steps into the living room. “Shelbee, one of these days, I am going to shoot you, just for the personal satisfaction of it. And who knows, maybe today will be that day. Am I going to have to spend all night searching for bugs and cameras and stuff after you leave?” “Not on my account,” she said. “And that’s not a problem right now because of the anti-surveillance tech currently running on my phone. No one can eavesdrop.” “Except for you,” I replied sourly. She smiled again. Shaking my head, I now succeeded in removing my jacket, reaching up and undoing the bowtie. “I need to go to the bathroom first. We’ll talk when I get back, but I have to warn you, I don’t have a lot of time. I’m on duty early tomorrow and it’s gonna be another long day. So I need as much sleep as I can get.” She nodded, her expression now businesslike. I stared at her for a few more moments before my bladder told me to get a move on. So move on I did. I was curious as hell, though. Shelbee Roberts did not just drop by, not ever, and while our last meeting had ended in a most pleasurable twist,9 something told me that she was not here tonight for a return engagement. A part of me was sad about that, but mostly I was thinking about checking every inch of my place for bugs and bombs after she was gone… 9 44